


deep waters

by reystars



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Obviously lol, Post S2, RMS Titanic, Slight Canon Divergence, Time Travel, lots of pining and angst etc etc, lucy is kidnapped, rufus is alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystars/pseuds/reystars
Summary: When Emma kidnaps Lucy and brings her to the famous and fateful voyage of the RMS Titanic in 1912, the team finds themselves in an impossibly dire situation.





	1. prologue

**_PROLOGUE_** _  
March 8th, 2018_

“They took Lucy.”

Flynn is fire. Raging, burning fire. As soon as the door to the Lifeboat is open he pushes out, past Agent Christopher and Jiya, nearly barreling straight through Mason. Wyatt is next out, looking defeated and hollow. Rufus follows suit, the look on his face reflecting the truth of what Flynn’s said.

The air in the warehouse is full of red dirt and dust, torn up and whipped around the room by the arrival of the lifeboat. It's hot, dry, and as far as everyone knows, somewhere in the middle of the desert near the Utah/Nevada border. It's their third hideout since the location of the bunker was compromised, and somehow, it's not the worst one. Rufus shudders, remembering leaky pipes and bats. Actual bats.

“What happened?” Agent Christopher asks, her question directed at no one in particular, but her glance ends up on Flynn. His chaotic fury has collapsed inward and now he's pacing back and forth in front of the makeshift conglomerate of computer screens, eyes running over them, analytically taking in information. His focus is almost scary, so Rufus speaks.

“Emma grabbed her,” he says as he reaches the bottom of the Lifeboat ladder. Jiya is there, waiting, like she always is. She doesn’t say anything, just wraps her arms around him and buries her head in his chest as he speaks. She holds onto him as if he's going to slip out of time and space.  “Took her back in the mothership.”

Rufus leaves out the part where Jessica was there, shooting at them in her maternity corset.

“We need to blow that thing to hell,” Wyatt mutters. His shirt is torn, his face is bruised, his lip is cut, bleeding. He glances over at Flynn, as if he's waiting for the wrath. Rufus doesn't blame him, he also expects some sort of quip, a snappy remark about Wyatt not being able to shoot at his pregnant wife, but Flynn seems to have tuned absolutely everyone else out. Wyatt opens his mouth as if he's going to speak again but seems to think better of it.

Probably for the best.

"What do you think they want with Lucy?" Christopher asks, her arms crossed.

There’s silence in response. No one wants to say what’s all on their minds. The only thing Emma really wants with Lucy is her dead.

The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, it’s beginning to show in shadows under Christopher’s eyes. Mason, too, looks a disheveled mess. He’s doing something on the computer, one half of his button down shirt untucked and covered in dust and dirt. With Lucy gone there's a gaping hole in the group, one that seems to discolor the air and seep the light out of the already dim room.

An alert pierces the room, a red light flashing and spinning atop one of the computer monitors. The mothership has jumped.

Flynn nearly knocks into Mason to look at the computer screen, the rest of the team joining him only moments later.

"April 10th 1912, Newhampton, England." Mason reads aloud. Flynn runs a hand through his hair, the cogs in his brain already working on a plan, a solution, _something_. It's almost unnecessary, but Jiya is the first to say it out loud, her voice hallowed.

"The  _Titanic_."


	2. Ut In Omnibus

**_SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND_ **   
_April 10th, 1912_

The scent of salt in the air mixes with smoke and steam. Lucy closes her eyes, focusing on the calls of seagulls in the distance. She can hear shouts from crewmen, the splashing of waves. For a moment she tries to get lost in the seaside ambience.

“Time to go, _princess_.”

Moment over.

She turns to look at Emma, who’s just appeared next to her, arms crossed. Her red hair is in waves, pulled up into a high elegant knot on top of her head, a large hat covering it. Lucy’s hair has been styled similarly, with waves framing her face and a large hair piece as an accessory. She doesn’t know where Emma got the dresses, but she knows they’re expensive. Satin fabric, gloves, even a string of pearls. Pearls that feel like they’re choking Lucy as she reluctantly follows Emma to the entrance of one of the tall grey buildings lining the docks. Lucy glances behind her as they walk, their boots clicking on the paving stones.

She can’t stop glancing at the Titanic in the distance. Seeing it in person, despite the circumstances, is overwhelming. Emma has been purposefully cryptic about why they’re here—doesn’t want Lucy to get any ideas about her plans, straying away from the typical villainous monologue it seems—but it clearly is related somehow to the fateful maiden voyage.

As they approach the tall grey building, Lucy glances up at the uncharacteristically clear Southampton sky. There’s a slight breeze, but as far as sailing the largest and most well-crafted ocean liner of all time goes, the weather couldn’t be more ideal.

Lucy turns her attention to the door, where Emma has indicated their sleeper agent will be meeting them. There’s a man there in a grey suit, leaning against the wooden doorframe, squinting against the sun. It takes her a moment to recognize him, but when she does, Lucy’s jaw drops.

“ _Noah_?”

Emma rolls her eyes, disinterested.

“Save the romantic reunion for later,” she says. “We have a job to do.”

She steps inside the building but Lucy stops, still shaken by his unexpected appearance. He's dressed appropriate to the time period, wearing a tweed vest and a newsboys cap. He tosses the thin cigarette he was holding in his hand. It must have been a prop, an excuse to linger outside the building, since it didn't even look lit.

She hasn’t seen him since the day that he saved Rufus’ life after he’d been shot by Al Capone. Their confusing goodbye, the hurt on his face, it all comes rushing back to her. In the chaos surrounding the following months, Lucy had hardly given the fiancé she didn't even know a second thought. Someone she'd supposedly shared a life with—a life she couldn't remember because she'd never experienced it.

“You’re the sleeper?” Lucy said, the disbelief short lived as she remembers how intensely her mother had meddled in her life. As if her mother would be okay with Lucy marrying anyone other than a member of Rittenhouse. She can hear her mother’s words echoing in her mind, talking about meeting her father.

 _We come from two strong Rittenhouse_ _families_.

If only she could forget for two seconds the cult's obsession with blood and legacy. She shivers, thinking about how different her life could have been.

“I’ve been here two years,” he says, motioning with his hand for Lucy to enter the building first. Lucy hesitates, once again wondering how far she'd get if she made a run for it, but she spots the pistol tucked into Noah's belt (modern, of course) and decides to not take her chances.

“Though I’m sure it’s only been a few days for Emma," Noah adds as he follows her inside. "She even has the same scratches."

“Did you know about time travel when you saved Rufus’ life?” Lucy asks as they walk down the dingy hallway. It’s dim, especially compared to the brightness outside, and Lucy has to grip the wooden railing to guide herself up the stairs, Noah almost uncomfortably close behind. It reminds her of the alien closeness he exhibited when she first met him, how he kissed her as if they'd done it a thousand times before. They probably had. But it was... some other Lucy.

“I didn’t,” Noah says. “But I did know about Rittenhouse.”

They reach the top of the stairs and Lucy turns. She's a few steps above him, and it has her looking down at him, still gripping the railing. She can see his face through the sunlight falling through the grimy, salt encrusted window.

“Why didn’t you betray us?” Lucy asks. "You saved Rufus, you could have given away our location. Why didn't you?"

Noah looks away from her, exasperated.

“God, Lucy. You were my fiancé, okay? I was--”

Emma appears behind Lucy before he has a chance to finish.

“Relationship drama likes to follow you around, doesn't it, _princess_?” she says. “Let’s _go_.”

They're standing outside an office door and Emma raps three times with her knuckles. After she knocks she slips gloves on, adjusting her hat. Lucy glances at both of them, wishing she could feel confident enough to steal Noah's pistol and leave them both dead in the hallway.

It might leave her trapped in 1912, but it would be worth it.

Lucy feels eerily brought back to her first trip with her mother and Emma in 1918. The hopelessness she felt then, thinking Rufus and Wyatt were dead, ready to kill herself along with them if it meant taking down Rittenhouse. It felt so similar now.

 The last time she saw her team there were bullets raining down on them and she was being dragged away in Emma's steel grip. She can still vividly remember the way Flynn fought against the crowd, being dragged back even as Lucy was pulled further and further away. The last thing she can remember before being knocked out completely was Flynn roaring her name.

Lucy has no idea if they made it out of the mob alive, if they made it back to the lifeboat. If they were even coming for her. She doesn't doubt that they will, but if they end up on the fated ship, she knows she doesn't want them to.

The door swings open and a round, old man is standing there. He's wearing a banker's suit, his white hair is balding and his mustache looks very villain in an old western. He scrutinizes Emma for a second.

" _Ut in omnibus_ ," Emma says, and she makes the Latin sound almost threatening. The man glances at Lucy, then Noah, then behind them before finally allowing the door to swing open and let them in.

The room is an office, with a few chairs and a couch. The desk is scattered with papers and there's three large suitcases next to it, one of them on the ground, opened. Lucy's eyes travel to the nameplate sitting on the desk. _J.P. Morgan_.

"J.P. Morgan?" She quietly hisses to Emma, who ignores her.

"Well, what do you folks want with me now?" He asks, looking visibly uncomfortable with their presence. He's old, very old, and if Lucy can remember correctly, he's due to die in a few years. It shows. "I've got a very impressive ship waiting for me in the harbor."

"The _Titanic_ is quite impressive," Emma says. "I'm here to give you some business advice."

J.P. Morgan raises one ratty eyebrow as if business advice from a woman is the last thing he's going to be taking, but he waits to hear her out. Whatever he has worked out with Rittenhouse, it's got the most powerful man in the world at Emma's beck and call. Lucy can see her eating it up.

"I need you to make sure to take out a large insurance policy on the _Titanic_."

Morgan scoffs. "If I take out a large insurance policy, it'll look like I don't trust the power of my own ship."

"Do you?" Lucy can't help herself. She has to ask. "Do you truly think it's unsinkable?"

"Of course," he sneers. "Not even God Himself could sink that ship."

A chill runs over Lucy's body when she hears the words. Next to her she can feel Noah shift uncomfortably. Emma smiles.

"Reconsider your voyage, Mr. Morgan," she says. "I believe it would truly be in your best interest if you passed this one up. Return to your hotel in France."

The way Emma speaks the words sends Morgan back a step. His legs hit his desk and he leans on it with one hand, and his other hand, shaking, reaches up to adjust his spectacles.

"Is this Rittenhouse's doing?" He asks. It comes out as a whisper. And that's when Lucy realizes that he's truly, genuinely _afraid_ of Emma. She can't blame him. She knows what Emma is capable of, what Rittenhouse is capable of. What they've done, what they will do.

"I wish Rittenhouse could take credit for what's about to happen," Emma says. "But unfortunately, that's up to your overconfidence and bad luck."

Emma moves as if to leave, Lucy and Noah following behind, but then she stops for a moment.

"I almost forgot," she says, turning back around, a smile on her face. "I need three first class tickets."

* * *

**_QUEENSTOWN, IRELAND_ **   
_April 11th, 1912_

“I didn’t realize it was this… big.”

Wyatt is squinting up at the behemoth of a ship as Rufus says it, and Flynn is glancing around them at the hubbub of the port, watching people loading onto the ship like a hawk. He’s barely given the ship a second glance. No shit it’s large, it’s not called the _Titanic_ for laughs.

“I keep expecting to see Leo,” Rufus says.

“Leo who?” Flynn asks. Rufus and Wyatt share a glance.

Flynn would be lying if he didn’t admire the ship for a few moments, but that’s all he allowed himself. He looks over at Wyatt and Rufus and they’re nudging each other, jaws dropped like schoolboys. Not for the first time, he wonders how Wyatt and Rufus ever managed to keep up with him in the time machine with their lack of focus and constant distraction. Then of course, they had Lucy.

So did he, really.

“We should split up,” he says. “Find a way to board the ship.”

“Last call!” a man shouts, ringing a bell. “Last call for boarding!”

“Shit,” Flynn swears, running a hand through his hair, trying to think. The squirrely man they’d beat up had confirmed that ‘ _the scary redhead and pretty brunette_ ’, in all their finesse, boarded as first class passengers in Southampton.

‘ _Personal guests of Mr. J.P. Morgan himself_ ,’ the man, already missing some teeth, had told them in a thick cockney accent. Though Flynn thought the man could stand to lose a few more teeth, Rufus emphasized that if they were going to catch the ship before it went out to sea, they’d need to rush to Queenstown, Ireland. A rocky day at sea had brought them here with barely enough time to spare. Flynn had thrown up three times and it had put him in even more of an awful mood than he was already in.

“Uh, guys,” Wyatt says. “If we don’t get on that ship, we’ll lose Lucy.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Flynn hisses. “I’m trying to _think_.”

He’s watching the passengers file into the loading area. Most of them look relatively poor. He spots two people, a couple, at the back of the line. They’re wearing shabby clothes and look tense. Something about their energy is giving them away. Easy targets.

Flynn is shoved to the side by a crewman rushing to the ship, a slew of bags thrown over his shoulder. He makes eye contact with Rufus and immediately, Rufus sighs.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll sneak on with the crew.”

Wyatt pats Rufus on the back and turns to Flynn.

“Should we try that too?” he asks.

“Too risky,” Flynn says. “They’re more likely to catch three than one.”

Flynn turns his attention back to the couple waiting in line. They’re glancing around nervously, and Flynn makes a beeline towards them. Wyatt follows right behind, keeping up with his long, confident strides.

“Excuse me,” he says with a smarmy smile. The couple looks startled to see a tall and terrifying Croatian man approaching them with such intensity. They immediately start babbling in German.

“ _You could try to not be terrifying for two seconds_ ,” Wyatt says to Flynn in German, trying to put the couple at ease. As irritated as it makes him, Flynn concedes that Wyatt does have a point.

” _I’m so sorry_ ,” Flynn responds curtly, absolutely unapologetic, and also in fluent German. “ _I’d like to_ buy _your tickets from you_.”

He tried to emphasize ‘ _buy_ ’ since the couple now looks wholly convinced he’s about to rob them. Which, in reality, would be rather easy.

The couple glances at one another.

“I’m sorry sir, our tickets are not for sale,” the man says in English.

“Your _stolen_ tickets are not for sale, you mean,” Flynn says. It’s a gamble based on a quick observation, but it pays off. The woman immediately bursts into tears.

“ _It’s alright,”_ Flynn says, in German again, glancing around. He doesn’t want to draw attention to them. The man is panicking too.

“ _We’re not the authorities._ ” Wyatt says, and his German is impressive. _“We just need to get on that ship_. _It’s important.”_

The woman is still crying. “ _Please_ ,” she says. “ _Please, we don’t have any money_.”

It hardly takes Flynn a split second to make the decision. He’s a pragmatic man. He knows how to do what needs to get done. He slips his wedding ring off of his left hand, and the spot where it’s rested for almost ten years feels immediately cold in its absence. Wyatt's eyebrows shoot up but he says nothing. He holds the ring up, and though it looks worn, it glints clearly in the sunlight.

" _This is pure gold,_ " Flynn says. “ _Mixed with silver. It’ll purchase more than two of these tickets would cost._ _Much more_.”

The last call bell rings once more and the line moves forward. His voice becomes desperate.

“ _Please_ ,” Flynn says. The man still looks hesitant, but the woman steps forward, takes the ring, and shoves the two tickets into his hand. Her and her husband are gone in almost an instant, the ring with them, disappeared into the crowd.

“Flynn—“ Wyatt starts as they walk forward in the line, but Flynn holds up his hand, which now feels naked.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice low. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Wyatt, or anyone.

“Come on,” he says, stepping up on the walkway over the splashing water. The wind is tossing his dark hair into his eyes. “Time to find Lucy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sticking history in a meat grinder to write this story so my sincerest apologies to actual historians.


	3. the first rule of interrogations

_**QUEENSTOWN, IRELAND** _  
_April 11th, 1912_

Despite the circumstances, Lucy can’t help but get caught up in the majesty of it all.

The air is trembling with energy. As she walks the luxuriously carpeted halls of the ship and laughter mingles with heavenly music floating through the air, she can almost forget that they’re not meant to be here.

The ship is huge, bigger than she ever thought it would be. They walk past port windows and she can see the crowds gathered on the dock. They're cheering and crying and waving and she tries not to think about the fact that this is the last time some of them will ever see their loved ones.

Emma walks in the front of the group, her eyes sparkling, touching the sleeve of the shipmaster as he talks. He’s leading them to their suites, and her charm is a successful distraction from Lucy’s discomfort. Their story covers why Noah is keeping so close to her—he’s her _fiancé_ —and Emma is a widower, traveling back to New York to live with her late husband’s family.

No one questions why they’re there or what they’re doing. In fact, everyone is so caught up in the novelty of it all that no one is really paying much attention to them at all. And Lucy can’t blame them, really.

They turn a corner and Lucy feels her breath catch at the sight of the grand staircase. It's the one she’d drawn for her 8th grade history report and kept hanging in her room (right next to her poster of Leonardo DiCaprio) for years after. The oak curves and gold trimmings on iron rails are brought out by the sunlight streaming through the glass dome in the ceiling, basking it in heavenly light. When she looks up, she can see how it winds up through several decks. Tears actually spring to her eyes, just for a moment.

And just as quickly, the sounds surrounding her seem to hollow out and the floor spins for a moment as the scale of destruction is suddenly set in front of her. In a flicker she can somehow see both the ship, alive, and the sunken remains, thousands of feet below the surface. A haunted, frozen grave.

A hand touches her arm and she looks up to see Noah. He has the _audacity_ to look concerned for her and she jerks her arm away from him. Not soon after that he disappears. Some nefarious Rittenhouse business, Lucy supposes, but soon she pieces together that he wasn’t the only sleeper on this mission. Someone else must be on the ship.

They finally reach their rooms, a private suite that’s the most luxurious the ship can offer. As soon as the door shuts, Lucy whirls on Emma.

“Why even bring me here?” Lucy asks. “Why not just kill me in 2018?”

Emma is sipping on a glass of bourbon and isn’t deigned to answer. She motions to the various drinks and crystal glasses on the small table.

“Have a drink.”

Lucy crosses her arms, refusing to respond. She’s observing the room, plotting potential escape routes, and when she spots the door to the private deck and stops herself from breathing a sigh of relief. She knows they’re going to keep her holed up in this room, but knowing there’s an exit to the wide, open sea eases her claustrophobia. Just slightly. Emma downs the rest of the bourbon and drapes her fur coat over one of the chairs with a smug smile. Lucy has a feeling this may have been one of her dream trips too.

There’s a knock at the door and Emma opens it. Noah is standing there, looking stressed, a sense of urgency.

“Can we talk?” he says, glancing at Lucy to make it clear this conversation is not for her ears.

Emma looks at Lucy over her shoulder. Then she looks back at Noah.

“In the hall,” she says. They both move out, shutting the door behind them.

Lucy’s first instinct is to grab a crystal glass and hold it against the door to listen, but she thinks that might just be a thing in movies. Instead, she lunges straight at Emma’s luggage.

She knows there’s got to be a gun, somewhere. Silk and chiffon fly through the air as she frantically digs through the bag. The only thing of note that she finds is a small knife, which she slides into her stockings, so she moves onto the next suitcase. She probably only has moments more.

She hears the door handle jangle she spots a tiny pistol. Clicking off the safety, by the time the door opens she already has the gun pointed directly at Emma.

Emma smiles. She almost looks impressed.

Behind her, Noah already has his gun up and pointed at Lucy.

“You know I’ll shoot,” Lucy says.

“I know you’ll miss,” Emma says. “And then you’ll be dead, we’ll dump your body into the ocean, and no one will ever know what happened to you.”

Lucy’s hands are shaking but her resolve doesn’t waver.

“I don’t care,” Lucy said. “You’re the only pilot they have. You’re the leader of Rittenhouse. If I kill you, I end this now.”

Lucy fires the gun. The wood above Emma’s head splinters as she ducks. In a moment, before Lucy even has a chance to shoot again, Noah is crashing into her, pulling the gun out of her hand, and twisting her arms behind her.

“I thought you were a doctor,” Lucy spits, and his grip is so tight around her wrists that she can’t even struggle. Emma straightens up, her smile gone. It only takes two strides for her to reach Lucy, and when she does, she smacks her directly across the face with the palm of her hand. It stings, but it’s not the worst Emma has done to her. Or could do.

“That was your warning,” Emma says, her eyes unyielding. She looks down at the mess of clothing on the floor, then back at Lucy. Sticking the gun in the belt at the waist of her skirt, she goes to pour herself another drink.

* * *

**_SOMEWHERE IN THE ATLANTIC_ **  
_April 11th, 1912_

Night is falling after his first full day on the ship, and Flynn still hasn't found a single trace of Lucy.

It's frustratingly hard to get into the first class decks and corridors, so he's only been able to glance through them and make his way through the dining hall once. The limits of being on a ship have forced him to not punch his way into places, even though he _really_ wants to punch his way into places. On a ship there's only so many places you can hide from the law, so for once, he has to follow some sort of code.

So now he's circled the top deck twice, bumming a cigarette off of some Turkish immigrants, letting it burn out without even taking a single whiff. He flicks it carelessly into the ocean when he's done, watching the horizon. In his focus he's missed the sunset completely, and now the sky has turned a twilight shade of blue. It's in these moments, these inane, drawn out moments, that he wishes for Lucy's diary.

At first he thinks it's because he misses it as a useful guide for whatever the hell he's supposed to be doing right now. When he was chasing Rittenhouse through time he had precise directions, an idea of what the future he was supposed to shape would look like. He wishes Lucy's urgent, loopy handwriting was there, telling him what to do.

Leaning against the banister, watching the ocean pass below, he lets a begrudging truth sink in. It's not the diary he's yearning for at all. It's her wit, her brilliance, her brutal honesty. All of those things. He tries to remember at what point the comfort he gets from reading her words changed from the words themselves to the woman writing them.

"You look like you need a smoke," a voice says next to him. He's got an accent, Italian maybe.

Flynn turns to see a young man with dark hair, baby faced, holding out a cigarette.

"No thanks," Flynn says with a wry smile. "I'm trying to quit."

"Quit?" the boy laughs. "Why?"

Flynn just shakes his head politely. The boy shrugs, lighting his own cigarette. After he takes a puff, he asks Flynn if this is a round trip or if America is his final destination.

"Not sure just yet," Flynn says, his smile thin. He's never been good at small talk.

"I have a family in  _Italia,_ " the boy continues. He's got a hopeful, open face. "I'm going to work, send back money. Eventually I'll bring _mi amore_ over."

They make small talk for a little while, Flynn testing out his rusty Italian. He wonders what Lucy would think of this situation, chattering lightheartedly about a future this boy might not even have, considering what's to come.

Eventually, the boy leaves to join his friends, extending an invitation for Flynn to join their ongoing game of poker. Flynn politely declines, checking his watch. He's meant to meet Wyatt back at their rooms in ten minutes. With one last fruitless glance over the deck, Flynn heads back inside, keeping his head down. 

* * *

\---

Wyatt wakes with one hell of a headache.

The back of his head feels wet and sticky, probably with blood, and when he moves to touch it with his hand he suddenly realizes he can't. Move his hand, that is. It's tied behind his back with rough rope.

Hazily, he tries to remember where he is. The Titanic, for one. Right, 1812. That's a start. He looks around and all he sees are stacks of wooden crates and suitcases. So a cargo hold, most likely.

The nausea in his stomach could be from seasickness, as he can feel the subtle rock of the boat, or from being more than slightly concussed. It smells like salt and rotting fish, which doesn't help. He truly, sincerely hopes that he won't throw up. 

He struggles for a moment, trying to wriggle out of the ties around his hands. They're wrapped tightly around something metal behind his back, something that must be connected to the wall of the ship to prevent him from even standing.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he lets out a groan of pain. A sound alerts him and he looks up, seeing a man standing there. 

"Noah?" he says, wondering how concussed he must be if he's hallucinating Lucy's ex-fiance in the cargo hold. He blinks twice. Noah's still there. He walks forward, crouching down. In his hands Wyatt can see some bread and water.

"I thought you guys were staying in first class," Wyatt quips, but drinks the water anyway. He doesn't know how long he's been out but he's dying of thirst. He wants to make a comment about Noah being Rittenhouse, but of course he would be. Who isn't Rittenhouse nowadays?

Noah doesn't react to Wyatt's comments, but he does pull a large knife out of his pocket, making sure to establish the true power dynamics here. Or maybe he's overcompensating for something, Wyatt thinks.

"Are Rufus and Flynn on the ship too?" Noah asks. Wyatt almost laughs.

"Oh sure, let me just give away my teammates."

"You wouldn't come without backup."

"You really don't know me, then."

Noah straightens up, looking down at Wyatt with a frown.

"I don't take you for an idiot," he says.

"I appreciate it."

Noah rolls his eyes. "All I'm saying is that it would be in your best interest, and Lucy's, if you cooperate with us."

"It always is, isn't it?" Wyatt responds. "Where are you keeping Lucy, anyway? Since we're sharing details of our plans with our enemies now."

"You're a cocky bastard," Noah says, and maybe it's  _because_ he's a cocky bastard, but Wyatt thinks detects a hint of admiration in his tone. "I see why Jessica had a soft spot for you."

Wyatt's mood immediately darkens. 

"Sorry, sore subject?" Noah asks.

Wyatt doesn't say anything. He knows the first rule of interrogations is to not let the interrogator know when they get to you, but the wound is so fresh still that prodding at it immediately affects him. He's sure Noah can see it written all over his face.

"She found out the gender of the baby," he says, absentmindedly picking at the hilt of the knife in his hand. "You've got to at least be curious, right?"

Wyatt feels his body go icy cold with rage, and he struggles against his restraints, ready to choke the smug grin right off of Noah's face. _  
_

"Well," Noah says, gloating slightly. "I'll hold onto that I guess."

After Noah leaves, Wyatt slumps back, closing his eyes. Not knowing how long he's been out, not being near a window, it's impossible to tell how much time has passed. He wonders if they're going to leave him in there until the entire ship is submerged. He wouldn't put it past them. What a horrifically awful way to die.


	4. 15,000 Irishmen

**_SOMEWHERE IN THE ATLANTIC_ **  
_April 13th, 1912_

Lucy has long since stopped struggling to get free of the ropes keeping her tied to the wooden desk chair when Emma pushes the door open. She’s holding a cascade of blue fabric over one arm, which she then dumps on the bed.

Time has passed, and also it hasn’t. Lucy isn’t sure how long she’s been in here, since the lavish room is on the inner part of the ship and doesn’t have a window. She can assume a night has passed—they handcuffed her to her bedpost so she could sleep for a few hours before returning her back to the chair. She can’t check to see, but she’s almost sure she’s got bruises on her forearms from the first few hours struggling against them. 

Lucy eyes the fabric—it must be a dress—suspiciously.

“How are you?” Emma asks disingenuously, knowing Lucy can’t respond because she had turned one of her scarves into a makeshift gag. Emma walks across the room, pulling the gag out of her mouth.

Lucy closes her mouth, licking her lips, trying to get some moisture back.

“Where are we going?” she asks as Emma starts to unravel the ties around her ankles.

“To dinner,” she says. For once, it seems like she’s telling the truth.

She doesn’t even struggle as Emma releases the ties around her wrists because she’d do anything,  _anything_ , to get out of this room. It’s not the smallest room she’s ever been trapped in, by far, but she’s been fighting off a panic attack ever since they first closed the door. Her chest is finally starting to unclench, her pulse returning to normal after hours of being locked in the room. There’s very little Lucy wouldn’t do just to see sunlight at this point.

“Get dressed,” Emma says, nodding at the dress. “Be ready in fifteen.”

As Lucy struggles into the dress, her stomach churns with both seasickness with hunger. She’s trying to think of how long they’ve been on the ship, if it’s dinner already. It has to be Saturday night. The 13th. Almost 24 hours to go before the sinking. Finally, the dress on, she turns to look at herself in the mirror. She has to admit it’s beautiful. It has an empire waist, a common characteristic in early Edwardian dinner wear, but this is expertly made. Soft, shimmering gossamer fabric falls over her shoulders, layers of it also falling from the shapeless waist. The bodice is a tight V with intricate beading in delicate droplets falling all the way to the floor.

With a few minutes to spare, Lucy pins back some of her falling curls with shaking hands. She takes a deep breath, then another, and the door opens again. Emma is wearing a white gown with puffed sleeves and a large hat with feathers has been securely and fashionably placed on her head. She’s holding a pair of dark blue gloves and pearls, evidently for Lucy to wear.

As Lucy slips the gloves on after the pearls, Emma pins something feathery and glittery into her hair. Lucy feels sick, like a child being forced to play dress up.

Lucy watches Emma as she pops open her suitcase, pulling out a tangle of very modern cords and tiny microphones, wrapping them around a few of her fingers to loop the chords together and sliding them into her small hand purse. She also pulls out a small recording device, clicking it with her thumb to test it out.

“Surveillance?” Lucy asks. “Is that why we’re here?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Emma says, snapping the purse shut. The sequins glitter. “As for you, I’m going to need to use your brilliant little historian’s brain to find something.”

Leaning over the vanity, Emma applies lipstick as she talks.

“Something very important that belongs to Rittenhouse is on this ship. It was lost in the sinking, but I need you to find it for me.”

She rubs her lips together, pursing them in the mirror, then turns to Lucy. “You can start with Andrews, I’m sure he’s got some idea of where something would be hidden on the ship.”

“What am I even looking for?” Lucy asks.

There’s a knock on the door, evidently a cue to go. As Lucy follows Emma to the door, she remarks, “So how do you fit a gun into a dress like that?”

“No need,” Emma says, opening the door. Noah and a man who must be the other Rittenhouse sleeper, a rough looking blonde man with barrels for arms and a scar down his face, are both waiting, and packing enough heat for an entire team of agents.

“After you, Princess.”

* * *

 

The server’s uniform that Flynn has stolen is slightly too small for him.

It pulls at his broad shoulders, the sleeves don’t _quite_ reach his wrists, and the itchy seams on the trousers are the worst part of the whole situation. The white slacks barely brush past his ankles. Still, the size of the uniform is not his biggest problem. It’s a minor inconvenience at best. He’s worried about the steward who saw him sneaking out of the laundry room with the best approximation of his size in clothing. A vague, threatening look was enough to scare the boy off, but he wasn’t feeling all that confident that he would keep his mouth shut.

Throwing him off the ship would have been cleaner, but he’s, you know, _trying_ to be better.

But Flynn is at his wits end now, having spent another day with not a single sign of Rufus, and now Wyatt missing as well. He’d woken up that morning sore and cramped, sunlight shining through the porthole. He couldn’t even remember closing his eyes the night before as he’d been waiting up for Wyatt to finally show. He never did.

Flynn could still feel the achiness in his upper back from where it had been curled against the wall. Clearly, they had not taking 6 and a half foot men into consideration when designing the tiny state rooms.

He’d washed up in the communal shower, trying to somehow scrub some of the exhaustion off of himself, then returned to the room, trying to formulate some sort of plan. He felt as if he’d been hitting one dead end after another after coming on board the cursed ship. As much as he wants to start banging down every door in the first class, he knows that’s not a realistic option.

Would be a great stress relief, though.

Two days on the ship has shown him that there’s a sort of pattern, a routine. He knows that being first class passengers they’ll have to show up to dinner at some point. A server’s uniform seemed easier to steal from the laundry room than a top hat and fancy penguin coat.

One of his main concerns is immediately being found out by the other servers, but as it turns out, there’s so many of them and so much chaos in the kitchens that despite some sideways looks at his size, no one pays him much attention. He hasn’t even spotted the steward yet who caught him stealing the uniform. It’s probably a good thing, as he hasn’t entirely ruled out throwing him overboard in the case that he’s caught.

The first class dining hall is excessively large. It spans the entire width of the ship and it’s all one wide, open room filled with pillars and tables with way too many forks and spoons on them. He has to admit to himself, though why the sheer luxury of the Titanic appealed to so many.

As he takes drinks around on a silver serving platter, an old woman stops him.

“Your scruff doesn’t seem quite up to code,” she huffs. He hasn’t shaved in three days, it’s starting to show. Before he can snap a witty retort at her, she’s drifted off with her other friends. He runs a hand over the shadow on his jaw.

He spends almost two hours walking the floor with drinks, a seemingly fruitless cause. The endless loop of string instruments in the air is starting to grate on his nerves and he’s ready to chuck the silver platter out the window and snap the violinist’s bow in half when he suddenly spots Emma.

Her red hair is twisted up under a large white hat, her gown extravagant, especially in the volume of its sleeves. She’s in deep conversation with someone as she’s being escorted to a table near the window. A quick cursory glance produces no sign of Lucy, but if he can just get close enough to their table to listen, or stay out of sight long enough to follow them, he might be able to—

Then he sees her, being escorted through the glass paned doors, and his mind goes blank.

Lucy is there, actually _there,_ wearing a midnight blue dress, dark strands escaping her pinned up hair and curling at the nape of her neck. She’s holding the arm of a man Flynn doesn’t recognize and hardly registers because just looking at her suddenly brings the world into sharp, clear focus.

For the first time since he lost sight of Lucy in the crowd, he feels like there’s finally air in his lungs again. He doesn’t realize that he’s frozen until his wits finally come about him again at the sight of Emma turning her head in his direction and he slips behind a pillar, a plan already formulating in his mind.

First, he slips back into the kitchen.

* * *

 

Lucy is sitting so straight that she thinks her back might crack in half.

She's been quiet most of the dinner, barely picking at her plate despite her hunger. Noah is seated on one side of her and Emma on the other. And on the other side of Emma is Bill, the scar faced sleeper. On the way to dinner Lucy learned he’s been planted here since 1909 and he’s itching for action.

"Are you feeling alright, Lucy?"

Lucy looks up from her train of thought to see Thomas Andrews looking at her with genuine concern. He has a kind face. The first thing Lucy recalled when they shook hands in introduction a half hour prior is that he inevitably dies with the ship after saving as many people as he possibly can. The moment he discovers the ship has been sideswiped, he may be the only one who know exactly how devastating the damage truly is. He's a surprisingly humble man, and one of the only ones at the table who hasn't mentioned anything about the ship being unsinkable so far.

"She's just feeling a little seasick, that's all," Noah says after Lucy takes a second too long to respond, placing a hand on her arm. Lucy shrugs it away with what she hopes is a passable smile.

As she glances around the table, she's not at all surprised at how many of these men are Rittenhouse. Birds of a feather really must flock together. John Jacob Aster, probably the richest man on the whole ship. William Ernest Carter, his dark haired wife Lucille looking somber and quiet at his side. The most fascinating figure in front of her is probably J. Bruce Ismay. He has an air of superiority about him, and his prominent mustache curling at the ends does nothing but give him a sense of cartoonish villainy.

“He owns the White Star Line,” she finds herself whispering to Noah out of habit, her role as historical narrator naturally coming out. She doesn’t mention he’s the highest ranking man to survive the tragedy.

Emma painfully pinches Lucy under the table, lest she forget why she brought her here.

Lucy clears her throat.

“So,” she says, turning back to Andrews. “You built the ship?”

Andrews chuckles softly, looking down.

“Well I didn’t _build_ it. I’d say 15,000 Irishmen built it. But yes, I did design it.”

His voice has a pleasant lilt to it, his words roll off the tip of his tongue as he explains.

Lucy nods. “I’d love to see the schematics of it all. The designs.”

The designs of the ship are not why they’re here, of course, but she’s hoping this event would be boring enough that no one else will think ask to come along, and she’ll have a moment to chat with Andrews in private. The man is so unassuming and genuinely kind that she’s having a hard time believing that he’s a part of Rittenhouse. Still, he’s the only one on the ship who knows it intimately enough that he’d be able to find what Emma is looking for.

“Really?” Andrews asks, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely pleased that someone’s showing interested, but more than a little surprised. “I have some of the ships plans back in my room. Perhaps we could meet on the bridge after dinner tonight and I could show them to you.”

“That sounds amazing.”

Andrews looks at Noah now, who’s been quietly paying attention to the whole conversation. “Of course, you’d join us too, won’t you Mr. Hemsworth?”

Lucy resists the urge to roll her eyes at Noah’s overconfident chosen alias.

“It’d be a pleasure,” Noah says with a confident smile.

Edward Smith, the captain of the ship, pushes his chair back. His white beard is becoming, and something about him commands attention in a subtle way. When he stands, as if on cue, most of the men do too.

“Well, gentlemen, it looks like it’s time to retire for the evening,” he says with a smile. To smoke some cigars in the lounge, presumably. Emma motions for Noah and pulls him aside to talk privately for a moment.

Felling relieved that their attention is not on her for once, Lucy glances around the room at the people milling about. They’re all in expensive fabrics and feathery hats, speaking in polite tones to one another. She doesn’t know what, or who, she’s expecting to see, but she finds herself searching for something. Someone.

A glass clatters onto the table and Lucy’s attention is jerked back toward Bill, who she’d forgotten was there. He’s on his fourth glass of bourbon.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she says dryly, and Bill gives her a grin that makes her sick to her stomach.

“I’ve been waiting for this for years,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His grin shows stained teeth.

“Bill,” Emma says, turning back toward them. “Escort Miss Preston back to our room.”

Lucy glances over at Noah. His face is unreadable. She feels a sense of dread. She doesn’t trust Noah, or anything close to it, but she trusts Bill even less. She watches Emma and Noah disappear in the direction of the cigar lounge and feels Bill’s large hand wrap around her arm. His fingers are calloused and rough as he escorts her out of the dining lounge, flashing a charming smile at the few people who glance in their direction. Lucy is being dragged alongside him and they exit the lounge. They’ve almost reached the top of the grand staircase when a woman’s voice speaks up loudly behind them.

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

Bill keeps walking, but the voice speaks again. American.

“Excuse me, I’m speaking to you.”

Bill stops, not letting go of Lucy’s arm. They both turn to face the woman speaking as Bill ushers Lucy back, not wanting to cause a scene for the people who are milling about. It takes Lucy a moment to place the woman’s face, but once she does, she can’t help herself but exclaim, “You’re Molly Brown!”

The _Unsinkable_ Molly Brown.

Molly puts a hand on Lucy’s free arm, glaring daggers in Bill’s direction.

“Are you okay, ma’am? Is this man bothering you?”

“Yes—“ Lucy says at the same time Bill says, “No, we’re fine.”

Lucy knows that Molly’s husband has recently struck gold out west and she’s new to the rich class. She’s dressed to the nines but Lucy couldn’t be more grateful for Molly’s lack of social graces and refusing to turn the other way like every other woman has.

Molly purses her lips, looking at Bill with an air of distrust. Then, slowly and deliberately, glances up at the hat Emma had pinned into Lucy’s hair. When she looks back at Lucy, something unspoken passes between them, something that transcends generations and languages and social class, speaking a language women have spoken to survive since the dawn of time.

“Your breath smells like bourbon,” Molly says, stepping forward and sticking her nose directly in Bill’s face so suddenly that he loosens his grip on Lucy’s arm.

Lucy seizes the moment, pulling her hatpin out of her hair and whipping it down, scraping Bill’s upper arm. He howls, a red gash appearing through the torn fabric of his dress shirt. He staggers back, releasing Lucy in the process. In her hurry to get away from him her legs tangle in her skirt and she stumbles, her back hitting something solid.

She turns, somehow already knowing who she’s going to see when she does.

It’s Flynn.


	5. deus ex machina

The next few moments happen in a flash. Flynn’s arm wraps around Lucy, pulling her back as he pulls out a large kitchen knife. It’s not a gun, which he would have, of course, preferred, but if anything, Flynn in effective no matter _what_ the circumstance is. He has it pressed against the man’s hip, right near a major artery. He has practice. He knows how to keep it out of sight.

Lucy, of course, is lightning fast too. The blonde man reaches for his gun but she gets there first, whipping it quickly out of his reach.

Molly Brown, to her credit, has managed to block the majority of the action with her full skirt, glancing over her at the passerby who are starting to stare. When Flynn had approached her as she was leaving dinner, asking her for help, she’d jumped into action quickly. He was relieved that she lived up to her historical reputation.

“These people are dangerous,” Flynn had warned her, giving her an out. She had grinned at that.

“Good,” she said. “I’ve been bored to death and drowning in doilies.”

Bill groans a little bit from pain as Flynn twists his arm, loud enough to catch the attention of passerby. Molly jumps in.

“A little too much to drink,” she laughs loudly, and the pure volume of her voice is enough to make the sensible people of the first class glance away, not wanting to associate with such a scene.

“Thank you very much, Miss Brown,” Flynn says.

Molly Brown shakes her head and looks at Lucy.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into here, missy,” she says. “But I’d recommend getting yourself out of it real quick.”

Lucy shares a smile with her, a truly genuine one.

“Thank you,” she says. “Really. Thank you.”

Flynn glances around.

“People are starting to stare,” he says through gritted teeth. “We need to get him out of sight.”

He looks to Lucy, watching her scan the area, can already see her thinking, coming up with a solution. Her eyes land on a door across the awning.

“Can you cause a distraction?” she asks Molly. Molly grins.

“I think I can manage,” she says.

She turns, colliding directly with a man holding a drink tray. The metal clatters to the ground and glass shatters down the large staircase. Flynn can hear her apologizing profusely for her clumsiness as Lucy leads them quickly down a hallway, dragging Bill along as they go. They pass door after identical door, door numbers blur past in flashes of white and gold. Finally, they push open a door at the end of the hallway. It’s a somewhat large closet filled with towels and cleaning supplies, and it barely fits the three of them.

Lucy pulls the door shut behind them.

Flynn still has Bill restrained, moving the knife to his neck instead, but even as he tries to focus on the problem in front of them he can’t help but notice the immediate change in Lucy’s posture. He glances over at her, the distress on her face evident.

“Lucy?” he whispers.

“A little claustrophobic it seems,” Bill sneers, and Flynn presses the knife to his neck.

“Another word and you’ll bleed out in 30 seconds. They will be worst 30 seconds of your entire life.”

“Understood,” Bill grunts, but Flynn has already had enough. As drunk as he is, all it takes is a firm knock to the back of his head and he’s out, slumped over a pile of towels. Flynn keeps a hand near his neck in case he comes to again, and turns his attention back to Lucy.

Lucy is breathing hard, one hand on her stomach, the other supporting her on the wall, and she seems to be trying to ground herself.

Flynn suddenly vividly remembers a passage in Lucy’s journal. The rawness in how she’d described the night her car went into the river, how the water had slowly filled the car. The pressure from the water outside had prevented her from opening the door. She’d described the muted echo of her fists banging on the glass, the helplessness she’d felt as the icy water had risen past her waist, up to her neck, how she’d gasped for air as long as she could as the space had grown smaller and smaller.

Once the car had completely filled with water, a desperate Lucy had kicked through the window, the pressure finally released, and swam to the surface. She was a fighter, even then. Even then, before he’d even met her, he’d read it and admired her tenacity. Thought about her vulnerability, how darkness and tight spaces brought her back to that moment in the icy river.

Flynn reaches out to her, trying to find a way to help her back. He’s looking at her wordlessly, his hand outstretched, when the door handle starts to jiggle. Lucy tears her eyes away from his and grabs it, holding it so it doesn’t move. They’re both holding their breath as the door handle twists against Lucy’s knuckles, turning white from effort. A moment passes. Another. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, whoever’s trying to get in gives up. The moment seems to have snapped Lucy back to the present and she glances at Flynn as if to ask, without words, _What should we do?_

“I think we should kill him,” he says. He’s expecting Lucy to disagree, but he’s having a hard time seeing any other option where he can keep her safe and get them off the ship without disposing of the problem.

“I agree,” Lucy says and his head snaps to look at her in surprise. Her face in the yellow glow of the hanging bulb is resolute. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she blinks once, twice, and seems to make up her mind. She pulls off her long gloves, stuffing them on the shelf. Her movements are jerky, but deliberate.

She pulls the gun out of her skirts, and Flynn can see her hands shaking as she clicks the bullets into place. Flynn stops her before she can raise it, putting his free hand on the gun, his large fingers covering her soft, trembling hands. He gently wraps his hand around hers, taking the gun, and notices a ring of bruises around the thinnest part of her wrists. It lights a new fire of anger inside of him, but he says nothing.

He’s maneuvers so he’s close enough to her that his breath moves her hair when he speaks and she looks away, lets him take the gun, sliding it into his waistband.

Flynn already knows exactly what he’s going to do next. How he’s going to do it, how he’s not going to get caught. This is what he’s good at now. Being a murderer.

Lucy pushes open the door to the closet and nearly falls out, gasping for air as if she thought she’d never breathe again. She immediately checks to see if the coast is clear.

“My room is on the E deck,” he says after she turns back to face him. “Number 20304. Meet me there.”

She nods, her movements quick and jittered.

“Lucy,” he says, softly placing a hand on her neck, calming her frantic movements. She looks up at him, biting her lip.

“Be careful,” is all she says.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promises. He doesn’t want to leave her. “Now go.”

She does.

 

 

* * *

A metallic bang echoing through the baggage hold jerks Wyatt from his restless sleep.

“Who’s there?” he asks, and his voice comes out in a slur. He hasn’t had food or water for hours, much less seen another human person. He’s been able to fade in and out of sleep but every time he closes his eyes he feels icy water rushing in, consuming him, filling his lungs.

He turns his head and sees a woman crouching between two suitcases. In his delusional state, for just one heart wrenching moment, he thinks it’s Jessica. Blinking twice, he sees she’s much too young. She couldn’t be older than a teenager. She’s in a maroon dress, and her blonde hair is tied back in a knot behind her head, and behind her is Rufus, holding a metal pipe.

That wakes Wyatt up.

“Rufus,” he croaks.

The two of them rush forward, the girl sawing through his ties with a pocket knife, Rufus moving to hold Wyatt’s head up.

“How did you find me?” Wyatt asks as Rufus gives him some water to drink. As they help him stand he groans, every muscle in his stomach bruised and sore from the beating the ugly blonde Rittenhouse sleeper had given him earlier.  Wyatt has to lean heavily on both of them to stand. He feels the blood rush to his head and stumbles back, and they catch him.

“Let’s just say,” Rufus says, wrapping his arm under Wyatt’s, supporting him, “I’m the best damn pilot the Lifeboat has EVER seen.”

Realization dawns on him as they reach the door.

“Wait,” Wyatt says. “Are you saying the Lifeboat is _on this ship_?”

Rufus nods.

“How the _hell_ —“

“Look, can we get into explanations later?” the girl says, huffing as she pushes her shoulders up to keep Wyatt upright.

“Where are we going?” Wyatt asks.

“The sauna.”

The sauna, which, as it turns out, has been deemed out of commission with a sign on the door that reads _HIGHLY TOXIC MATERIAL, STAY OUT_.

The girl pushes the door open and they lock it behind them, laying Wyatt down on one of the reclining chairs. There’s an assortment of medicine and gauze surrounding them. Modern. As in, orange pill bottles and surgical scissors and rolls of gauze.

“Did someone get shot?” Wyatt asks.

“Yeah,” Rufus says. “You were. Apparently.”

Wyatt glances at his body, confused. That seemed like something he should remember.

“You were going to be,” the girl says. “As soon as Emma finds out Lucy’s escaped, she comes down and shoots you. This was all just a precaution. I didn’t know how quickly Rufus could land the Lifeboat.”

“Like I said, best damn pilot the Lifeboat has ever seen.”

Wyatt is staring at the girl, her blonde hair slipping out of her bun. Her eyes are startlingly green.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Wyatt asks.

“Jessica sent me,” she says, as if that should explain it.

Wyatt looks at Rufus, frustrated, waiting for any sort of elaboration. The girl looks resolute, it’s clear she’s not going to give any. Rufus shrugs. He looks just as confused as Wyatt is.

“I never made it onto the ship,” he said. “They caught me trying to sneak on and threw me into jail. I was there for about two days when Sophie showed up.”

“Sophie?” Wyatt repeats. “Doesn’t this all seem a little _deus ex machina_ to you?”

“Look,” Sophie says. “You can just say thank you.”

“Why would Jessica send you?” Wyatt asks, and his tone is more bitter than he intended it.

“She’s _pretty_ pregnant, Wyatt. It’s not like she could come herself.”

The mention of it stings. Even letting himself hope that some part of Jessica wants to be a family again, cares about his wellbeing, or hell, would be willing to cross oceans for him like he would for  her, is too painful to keep thinking about.

Rufus is pacing near the door, glancing through it anxiously. Sophie has busied herself with cleaning up the medical supplies, starting with the gauze, wrapping it up and stuffing it into the red American Red Cross case. She moves onto the painkillers next, shoving them inside. It’s strange to see the contrast of the modern medical equipment with the time period of the ship’s décor surrounding them.

Wyatt watches her pack up in silence for a moment. Then suddenly, he can’t help himself.

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

The girl jerks her head up to look at him.

“What?” she asks.

“The baby. Is she having a boy or a girl?”

Her hands have frozen where they’re wrapping the gauze and she looks at him for a moment.

“A boy,” she finally says. “She’s having a boy.”

Wyatt closes his eyes. He should be there with her, every step of the way. He’d pictured so many different ways he’d experience this milestone, and never was it battered in the sauna of a ship about to sink miles below the surface of the ocean.

Sophie tosses him an orange pill bottle.

“Ibuprofen,” she says with an attempt at a smile. He doesn’t return it.

* * *

When Lucy reaches the stateroom, counting the doors carefully as she goes, glancing behind her to make sure she isn’t being followed, she breathes a sigh of relief that only lasts a few moments.

The room is small, but being nestled in a corner it’s one of the few rooms on the ship that only has space for two bunks instead of four. She’s grateful for the semblance of privacy. The room is mostly empty except for a suitcase sitting on the ground, open, with stolen clothes spilling out of it. Shutting the door behind her, she crouches down to go through the suitcase to find something less glittery to wear.

There’s shirts and pants of varying sizes, all men’s, of course, but she’ll have to make what’s there work, even if women haven’t quite started to wear pants yet. She wonders exactly how much of his spare time he’s spent nicking clothes off of unsuspecting passengers.

When she gets to the bottom, she finds a familiar black sweater and pants. They must have been the clothes he’d traveled here in, neutral enough that they wouldn’t stand out too much in a crowd, so worth holding onto.

Lucy pulls out the sweater and strips out of her evening dress, a wave of exhaustion hitting her. Leaving the dress in a pile on the ground, she slips the black, woolen material over her head. The sweater is worn enough that it’s soft against her bare skin, and she doesn’t bother putting pants on since the sweater falls to her thighs. She doesn’t know what he’ll think when he gets back, but frankly, she doesn’t care.

Lucy is curled up on the bed, drifting in and out of sleep, when he returns. The sun has long since set and she’s been staring at the circle of light cast on the wall from the yellow deck lights. She sits up quickly when he enters. He doesn’t turn on the lamp, just goes to sit next to her on the small bed.

“Is he—“

“It’s taken care of,” Flynn says. He does a slight, almost imperceptible double take at the sweater, but doesn’t say anything.

She nods, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to him.

“The ship is going to sink tomorrow,” she says. “We have to find a way to stop it.” She’s spent a lot of time thinking things through, running different scenarios in her head. With the knowledge that she has, there’s a way she can stop this. Save thousands of lives. History be damned.

“Lucy—“ Flynn starts, but she interrupts him.

“There’s a few different things we can do. First, we need to talk to Andrews. We have to get them to slow the ship down, go slower through the night. If that doesn’t work—“

“Lucy.” Flynn says, firmer this time. “It’s nearly four in the morning. We won’t be able to do much of anything unless we get some sleep.”

As much as she hates to admit it, he’s right. She can feel herself breaking down from exhaustion and stress. This is the last night they have on the ship before it sinks, and there’s more to consider than just preventing the sinking. There’s finding whatever it is Rittenhouse has on the ship, getting the recordings of the meeting from Emma. Lucy exhales, putting her face in her palms. She feels Flynn’s hand on her back, almost so light she can’t feel it.

She wants to turn into his touch, let down her barriers, melt. But she’s so far past being vulnerable, so done being hurt, that she remains stoic.

When she doesn’t respond Flynn moves his hand away, busying himself with digging through his suitcase. He kneels on the floor, pulling out clothes.

“What happened to Wyatt and Rufus?”

She’s held off on asking the question because she’s terrified of the answer.

“I don’t know,” Flynn says, running a hand through his hair. “I lost track of Wyatt shortly after we boarded the ship. I haven’t seen Rufus since port.”

They awkwardly shuffle around each other in the small space. Flynn is too tall for both of the bunks by far and situates himself in a makeshift bed on the floor, using sheets and the pillow from the top bunk. Lucy tries to make herself comfortable on the bottom bunk, which is only slightly roomier than the top one and still makes her anxious.

They lay in silence for a little while, Lucy trying to keep her eyes closed, to force her body to succumb to the exhaustion and have at least a few peaceful moments of unconsciousness, but it won’t come. She finally rolls over to look at Flynn in the darkness, just a foot below her on the ground. He’s awake, laying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He looks over at her, something about his face is soft. Unguarded. Lucy is surprised by her sudden urge to trace the curve of his mouth with her fingertips, to run her hands through his hair. Whatever this is, it should be the last thing on her mind. She resists the need to be close to him.

And yet.

Lucy reaches out for him then. Wordlessly holds her hand out over the edge of the bunk. Flynn reaches up and takes it in his, lacing his fingers with hers. She feels something in her core uncoil, relax, and warm. She closes her eyes, focusing on that warmth. Not letting go.

She’s finally able to sleep.


	6. best damn pilot

**_April 14 th, 1912_ **   
_12 HOURS TILL THE ICEBERG_

Lucy wakes up curled against Flynn’s chest.

When she opens her eyes, she can see sunlight streaming through the port window forming a bright circle on the wall. She forgets where she is for a moment, lost in the warmth and solidness of him. Flynn is sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, one arm haphazardly flung up above his head, and the other tucked closely around Lucy. Her head is resting between his bicep and his chest, which is steadily rising and falling, and her arms are wrapped around his torso.

She’s not sure when, or how, this happened.

She lets herself lay there for a few moments, her eyes closed, as she tries to remember how she ended up here. She remembers falling asleep. All at once, she remembers waking in the middle of the night with her chest seizing up in terror in the darkness.

Dreams about the night her car went into the river had gone away years ago. Lucy used to have them frequently, always the same, always icy water filling her lungs and infinite darkness overtaking her vision. But they’d stopped, eventually, and although tight spaces still gave her panic, the dreams had at least left her alone.

Her hand was still in Flynn’s when she had woken up. He’d immediately sat up, his grip on her hand locking. Kneeling on the ground, he’d pulled her off of the bed, eased her into his arms, and held her. She remembers that he’d whispered calming words into her hair as she shivered, trying to ground herself, control her breathing. Lucy can’t recall the exact words now, but she knows they eased her and calmed her and eventually, she fell back asleep.

They’d gotten used to sleeping around each other, near each other, considering all the nights she spent in his room, drinking and talking, but they’d never woken up quite… this close.

Lucy opens her eyes again, tilting her head back to look up at Flynn’s face.

He’s deeply asleep, his mouth slightly open, his eyelids fluttering. In this state he seems so… soft. So vulnerable. A side of him she rarely gets to see. Briefly she wonders how he seems to be able to sleep literally _anywhere_ but then of course, there’s the years he spent in the army, in special ops, and even throughout history as a wayward fugitive. It’s a skill he’s probably been forced to learn. It’s one she hasn’t quite gotten the hang of yet.

Catching herself feeling far too comfortable, she starts to slowly pull away from him.

At first she thinks she’s woken him, as the arm that he has wrapped around her tightens, but it seems to be a reflex. She feels a lurch in her stomach, a ping of something—not _jealousy_ , not in so many words, but _something_ , when she thinks of where that instinct comes from.

He’s spoken to Lucy about Lorena about as much as she’s talked about Amy, which is to say, quite a lot. He always talks about her with an air of hope, something wistful, something he’s still committed himself to. It’s his fierce optimism—if that’s what you can call it—about believing in bringing his family back that has helped Lucy not lose her hope in seeing Amy again.

Lucy is thinking about this, about what will change when he finally does get his family back, about how at least she’ll be prepared for it this time around, when her gaze drops to his left hand. It’s the arm that’s wrapped around her still, and she nearly jolts when she realizes that it’s noticeably, glaringly bare. There’s even the slightest, barely visible tan line on his finger from where his wedding ring sat.

Resting his arm on the ground, Lucy pulls away from him fully. He doesn’t wake. She watches him sleep for a moment, only allows herself that much, then grabs a small looking pair of trousers from the trunk and slips out the door.

* * *

 

Flynn jolts awake when he senses something missing. A dull ache in his chest makes its way to his head and it takes him a moment to realize that Lucy is gone.

As soon as he realizes it, he’s on his feet so quickly he almost gets tangled in the sheet laying on the floor as he stumbles over to the door. He yanks the door open, trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep. When he opens it, Lucy is standing there in a simple maroon dress. He freezes, suddenly keenly aware of his hair sticking up in every direction.

“Good morning,” she says with a raised eyebrow. She’s holding a plate of bread and eggs.

“I, uh,” he starts, then runs a hand through his hair, closing his mouth. His heart is still pounding too hard for him to come up with a snarky comment.

“Don’t worry, no one saw me,” she says, moving past him into the room. “I had to find a dress to wear. And we both need food. This is going to be a long day.”

Lucy hands him the plate and he takes it, stepping back inside the room, closing the door. He sits on the edge of the bed and eats as she talks.

Despite the situation that she’s explaining, he can’t help but feel drawn in by the way she speaks. The way she explains things, moving her hands, talking so quickly that most people could barely keep up. There’s a piece of hair that keeps falling into her eyes and she keeps absentmindedly brushing it back as she talks, telling him about all the different factors that lead to the ship sinking. Flynn’s hand aches to move and tuck the hair behind her ear.

“The lookouts don’t have binoculars, like they should,” she says. “But they assume they’ll be able to turn the ship if they spot an iceberg. They’re wrong. The rudders are too small and the ship is going too fast. The first thing we should try is to slow the ship down.”

Flynn nods. He trusts Lucy completely. Even so, she looks unsettled.

“What is it?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I think we should find Andrews and see what he knows about Rittenhouse. Whatever it was Emma wanted me to find for her, I think we should make sure we get to it first.”

“I agree,” Flynn says.

Lucy looks like she’s holding the weight of the 4,000 souls on board on her shoulders. She looks like she’s about to crumble, but straightens up, her lips pressing into a resolved line. They’re leaving the room when Lucy suddenly stops, turning around. Flynn looks down at her questioningly, and Lucy throws her arms around his middle. For a moment Flynn’s arms hover in the air. Her hair is brushing the scruff on his chin as she squeezes and he wraps his arm around her.

“Thank you,” she says, her words muffled by his vest. “For coming for me.”

She moves to pull away but he can’t help but wrap his arms more tightly around her, just for a moment. He hopes she can’t hear the way his heart is pounding in his chest, glad that she can’t read his thoughts, that doesn’t know crossing oceans for her doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he’s willing to do for her, what he’s already done for her.

All he says is, “Always, Lucy.”

* * *

 

“Holy _shit_.”

Those are the only words that had been able to come out of Wyatt’s mouth when he saw the Lifeboat sitting in the center of the drained swimming pool. It was a little bit off kilter, not having landed _perfectly_ in the only empty space on the ship big enough to hold it, but still… holy shit.

Sunlight is streaming through the circular windows on the wall and the room itself isn’t as lavishly decorated as the spa was, but it’s still clearly a first-class amenity. The tile all around them is white and there’s a slight echo through the room.  Apparently, Sophie had broken both the filters and heaters so they’d been forced to close off the area to the public. Even so, they’d barricaded the large wooden doors and tied the handles together with rope as an extra precaution, blocking the only two entrances inside.

The pool itself isn’t too deep, the sides of it only reach the middle of the height of the lifeboat, but it’s fairly long and wide.

Rufus is looking at the whole scene with a look of pride on his face.

“The best damn pilot,” he mutters. Rufus and Sophie both climb down the metal ladder into the empty pool, their voices echoing slightly off the tiles as they speak. Wyatt watches them from the side of the pool with his arms crossed, still trying to take the whole scene in. Hoisting herself up, Sophie takes the medical supplies from Rufus and then swings her legs over the edge, perching herself there while Rufus gives the lifeboat a look around.

“The ship sinks today,” she says. “We need to get the recordings from Emma.”

“What recordings?” Wyatt asks. Apparently satisfied with the state of the lifeboat, Rufus leans against the wall of the pool with his arms crossed.

“It’s why she’s here,” Sophie explains. “There’s a bunch of important members of Rittenhouse on the ship. Big shocker right? With all the, y’know, glitz. They have a meeting and Emma records it.”

“And then stops the ship from sinking?” Rufus asks. “Because if so, I’m in favor of letting her.”

Sophie shakes her head.

“The ship sinking makes Rittenhouse millions in insurance,” she says. “With the added bonus of taking all of you down with it. It’s the only reason she brought Lucy on board. She’s basically bait.”

The idea infuriates Wyatt. Infuriates him because they know there’s no way they’d leave Lucy behind. That they played them into following them on this suicide mission. His fists clench, thinking of Jessica, of what she might have told them about the nature of his relationship with Lucy.

“Not to mention,” Sophie adds. “The most important members of Rittenhouse use their influence to weasel their way onto lifeboats anyway.”

“They take the whole comic book villain thing pretty seriously, don’t they?” says Rufus. He stands up, looking at Sophie. “So what do you suggest we do?”

Wyatt is looking at her expectantly too. It’s an interesting set up, but with Lucy gone, they need a new de facto brains-of-the-operation and it seems to have defaulted to Sophie, who knows the most about what’s going on. Sophie glances from Wyatt to Rufus for a moment, seemingly startled to be put on the spot. But she steps up to it.

“I suggest we get those recordings,” she says. “And destroy them, at the very least. Enough members of Rittenhouse are lost in the sinking that it completely derails the entire organization, setting it back at least a few years. With the recordings, though, Emma will be able to put Rittenhouse right back on track.”

“So we’re not even going to try to stop the sinking?” Rufus asks. Wyatt feels the same way. It seems wrong to not even make an effort to change this specific disaster.

“No,” Sophie says firmly. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t know how much it would change.”

It’s jarring to hear. Wyatt, not for the first, or second, or fifteenth time wishes that Lucy were there. He thinks she might agree with Sophie but they’ve spent so long rearranging historical events that he forgets that it was ever something they were meant to preserve. It’s not lost on him that the alteration of a large disaster was how Lucy lost Amy. If they change this, he wonders what he’ll even be returning to in the present.

"I mean, it would be strange to live in a world without Leo shouting ' _I'm on top of the world_!'," Rufus says with a wry smile.

"Leo who?" Sophie asks.

"DiCaprio? Come on, I'm not  _that_ old."

Sophie's face is still blank.

"James Cameron's Titanic! He played Jack! You know, highest grossing film of all time?"

"I know the movie," Sophie snaps. "Jack was played by Christian Bale. It's how he won his first Oscar."

"I'm sorry, his  _WHAT now_?"

"Guys! Focus!" Wyatt cuts in.

“I should stay with the lifeboat,” Rufus says. “Make sure that no one accidentally stumbles in here.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sophie says, hopping off from where she’s sitting. “Wyatt and I will find Emma and get the recordings.”

Sophie hoists up her skirts and climbs up the ladder on the side of the empty pool, pressing her hands on the inscribed tile ‘6 FEET’ marker to hoist herself out of it. When she stands up straight, she only comes to Wyatt’s chin. She seems to sense that Wyatt is looking at her and throws him a tough glare, crossing her arms. There’s something tomboyish about her entire frame, how she holds herself, how she looks like she’s constantly ready to throw a punch.

“Can you fight?” he asks, already knowing what her answer will be.

“Of course,” she says.

“Good. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a heartbreaking week for us Timeless fans but this story is still a joy to work on so I just wanted to say a quick thank you to every person who's taken a moment to leave a kudos and a comment! You guys are my bunker babes for life and your kind words really mean the world to me!


	7. Note from the Author

Dear Friends,

The last time that I updated this story was June 24th, two days after Timeless had been officially cancelled. It was after a month of silent hopefulness, a month of being put through the wringer and bouncing between hope and despair that the show had been saved. By the time they finally stopped dragging us along and cancelled the show, I felt like I had been played. I tried to be involved with the campaign to save the show at that point, but ship wars and drama began to turn something that I had loved  _so dearly_ with my entire heart into something that caused me stress, pain, and anxiety. So I stepped away from the whole thing.

When they announced that they were doing a two hour finale, I was still feeling broken and hurt by what the fandom had dissolved into, and didn't get my hopes up. I watched from the sidelines, but I tried not to get directly involved. And after it aired, I saw the blast and reactions to what had happened and decided that specifically as a Garcy shipper and Flynn fan, it would be too much for me to watch. So I have not, and still haven't.

I did hear, however, through the grapevine, that the Titanic was mentioned as something pivotal in Garcia and Lucy's relationship. It felt like an even more personal blow after all I had put into this fic.

The finale aired two weeks ago. I've sufficiently blacklisted it from all from my Tumblr and Twitter timelines and have been able to work through my complicated feelings about the finale to say this:

This fic, as it exists now, will not be completed. However, my desire for a better ending for these characters is a fuel lighting a fire under my ass and I've drafted a complete outline of an overhaul/reimagining of this fic. I'm taking a break from other things to write it and plan on publishing it on Ao3 within the next few weeks. Doing this has reminded me how much I love these characters and the stories that they were telling, and wanting to refocus back on what made Timeless amazing--seeing Lucy be a badass through history.

I hope, if you've read this far, that you'll come with me on this next journey. Likely, it'll be my last farewell to Timeless, a love letter to the show and these characters that I loved so much. And of course... some Garcy goodness.

Follow me on Tumblr (@reystars) or turn on author alerts here on Ao3 to be notified about when that's coming. And it _is_ coming--and will be completed this time. Thanks again for the amazing words of encouragement, the responses, the recommendations... they all mean the entire WORLD to me.

Love, Chelsea


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